


Scar: Flammable

by Draconic_Dreams



Series: Plague of Sleepwalkers ~Zombie Apocalypse AU [1]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Badass Scar, Gen, and all warnings that entails, but also clumsy scar, cool guys dont look at explosions, he's both and we love him for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 16:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draconic_Dreams/pseuds/Draconic_Dreams
Summary: Scar wants to make his apocalypse base at the airport. He has a name picked out and everything!First though, he has to deal with the zombies roaming the place.
Series: Plague of Sleepwalkers ~Zombie Apocalypse AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215575
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Scar: Flammable

**Author's Note:**

> _Help me find a way to breathe..._  
>  First work in this au. The second in my mental timeline but hey, sometimes you get the image of Scar with his oxygen tube holding a match while ominous music plays in the background and have to write the fic on the spot.

Scar streaked across the tarmac in his trusty off-road wheelchair. On second thoughts, the air traffic control tower was the one place guaranteed to be occupied at all times and therefore to be housing zombies. A zombie, at least. The door had been open when he arrived, and splashed with blood. He hoped whoever hadn't turned had escaped.

He hadn't seen another survivor anywhere in the airport.

Once he was sure the zombie had lost interest in him within the bank of vehicles, he carefully began driving himself into their garage. With a little luck, it would have a place to charge his wheelchair, maybe some fuel… and it was easy to escape from. The airport wasn't swarming by any means, with all the flights they cancelled after Professor Zloy's breakdown was traced to a new strain of bacteria, but there were enough zombies around to make his life very difficult if they cornered him.

Scar glanced out of the entrance again. No zombies in sight. Ever so carefully, like the very action might jinx him, he placed a single oxygen canister on the ground.  _ Home _ . This garage could be his base until he conquered the whole airport and made it into his Mos Scara.

But for now, he would rest. If he overexerted himself and his body shut down, there was no one to carry him to bed. No way to defend himself if one of the airport zombies did happen upon his hiding place. It was a risk he couldn't take, so he sat in the dark, and waited, and planned. He could pick them off one by one, over the course of the next few days. It would be easier than trying to fight a whole swarm at once, but that didn't mean it would be easy.

Some time into planning (and wishing he had something to doodle on to help him think) Scar decided it would be worth recharging his wheelchair while he had downtime. He rolled gently over to a plugged in vehicle and tugged at the wire — his hand slammed down on the controls of his wheelchair, spinning him in a circle and slamming into a shelf of tools. The oxygen attached to his face was thankfully far enough from the sparks. The oxygen still on the floor was not.

There was no fireball; the worst of the conflagration was contained by the canister. This was not a piece of luck Scar was fully able to appreciate while dodging shrapnel, and the tools that fell from the now broken shelf. He continued not to feel especially lucky when the noise drew the attention of the control tower zombie, and, as he poked his head out of the door, a few others that had been aimlessly wandering around outside. 

Scar streaked across the tarmac once more, and wondered if coming to the airport had been a mistake. Sheltered under the fuselage of a small jet, he considered a more immediate solution to the zombie problem. Explosions, if they were going to happen, could at least be made to happen in his favour.

Scar really, really hoped this went in his favour. He drove around, inside and outside the building, smacking a wrench against the lid of a toolbox and insulting the zombies as he went. Admittedly, ‘You smell and your mom was a poop’ was a very  _ Scar _ sort of insult, but the zombies were chasing him nonetheless. They were on his tail now, he had to time his move just right to draw them in while escaping the flames himself. Scar tied an oil-soaked rag around his wrench.

The zombies were closing the distance, coming together in a never-ending patchwork of weeping scabs and fresh blood and decay.

Scar wove around a fuel truck, drawing them closer to its damaged shell. They were nearly close enough to grab at him. He reached down instinctively to give himself a little more oxygen, to feed his racing heart… but he couldn't, this close to the flame. He turned the little tap off entirely, just for a moment.

Scar lit the rag. The nearest zombie lunged for him, as though recognising the threat and Scar threw his wheelchair up to full speed all at once, in a way that would probably damage the engine but he didn't care, couldn't afford to care, he was already feeling breathless and he only had one shot to fling his burning wrench back at the fuel cart and keep moving away, away, as far away as he could from the zombie horde and the sound that left his ears ringing. He didn't slow down or look back until they stopped, then he bumped up his oxygen and breathed, in and out, and stared at what even from this distance was clearly a brand new crater in the ramp.

He took another breath.


End file.
